Talk:Nova/@comment-25065826-20150203204835
Cloner shouts out the door. "EVERYONE DISMISSED! You'll get a note about your training through your room door!" Then, he slams the door closed. The room is plain, with a few tables in it, and a single light. The larger, unfamiliar figure kneels and puts his hands on my knees, pushing them firmly into the floor. He seems regretful though, almost, but there's no denying that he won't be helping me out of this. Cloner crouches at my head, pulling my arms and hands, twisting them behind my head. But I'm not showing fear, not trying to. I can't shake the feeling, though. Why am I being restrained? Then, the hooded guy steps over. He's quite small, but the presence he gives off is absolutely terrifying. People's faces drain of blood when these scars are mentioned. People apparently don't betray this cause in fear of pain. I've always thought of myself as having a strong pain threshold, but to where does it extend? Suddenly, no time to be thinking. Cloner's hand around my throat. And scar guy steps forward. He kneels next to me. From the front, his hood covers his face, but kneeling and staring at my neck, eyes, neck, eyes, his eyes flitting from one part of my face to the other, he's vulnerable to my shaking gaze. I glance at his face. It's covered in shadows, but... No. Shadows, yes. But mostly tattoos. Patterns almost growing up his face like vines, splitting off and spreading. He looks horrifying. Cloner moves his hand, and tattoo guy's hand presses against my throat. On the left, I feel a lumpy pattern. The scar? I can't help but think - Well, the left of my face is pretty much ruined. My glasses are pulled off, put on the floor gently by the tattoo 'artist'. Maybe he's not so bad. But then, all thoughts fly from my head. Oh My- I never thought I'd scream as much again. But the record that photo on my phone set is soon burning, in flames, like my neck, face, body, and my throat is raw from volume in a few seconds, my throat feels it's being cut out, 1000 times at once, pressure everywhere, pain everywhere, shooting everywhere in my body, all the time, always. My body's shaking. I'm screaming. Screaming, screaming. A piercing siren, coming from me, at me, watching gleefully as I convulse on the floor. But the police car, the siren, isn't stopping, it's getting closer, closer, and I can't stop it, I can't do anything, my hands are tied, my lags and crushed against the floor, but the floor's gone, and I'm falling, falling, falling... I can't keep holding, but I can't let go, I can't do anything, my hands are bound, my feet are bound, my necks exploding, the black vines are growing, growing into a face in my eyes, my mind, in front of me, it's smiling, laughing. I hear a brief scrape and something hits my head, a table, and it flies to the ceiling, but I can't follow it, can't fly, can't escape, because my feet and arms are pinned against the floor, but I'm falling... Falling... Falling. Everything goes numb. I can't feel anything. My head hurts, it's screaming, but I'm rising, and lying down, not screaming. There's two arms beneath me, there's a buzzing in the air, and it's too loud, too quiet. The ceiling changes, it's moving closer slightly, and I'm floating. And I'm convinced the feeling, the visit to Hell, it's gone, over, finished. But the buzzing carries on. The pressure lifting me is soft but strong, and the ceiling keeps changing, with ridges rising and falling, like it's moving. But it's me moving, isn't it? I'm moving. A shadow covers part of my vision, a silhouette and I'm left only seeing to the left a bit. A jumper, rising slightly, in a rhythmic rise and fall that levitates and drops me, too. There's nothing else. Just a buzzing, just a jumper. Just numbness. A door opens, and I'm shuffled in, and laid on a soft cushion. A bed, maybe. And the jumper fades, the buzz does too, and darkness settles instead. * My eyes open, and I wonder why I'm in bed at 3 o'clock in the afternoon. I sit up, but my neck stays behind, burning and pulsing, and I'm dragged down again. Lying still. Breathing. My ears feel... clear? My eyes feel strained, my head is pulsing, my shoulders feel flattened and my feet mutilated. Apart from that, though, I couldn't be better. Oh, I'm in an extremist group and possibly being hunted, along with the rest of the friends I have left, by he police forces sworn to protect me. Yeah, I think it's more of a 'the situation could be improved upon.' Then, I notice a piece of paper beside me. I turn my head, try ignoring my neck, and grab it, pulling it to me before my neck burns up. There's a small bottle attached to it. "Your training schedule." Oh, great. Brilliant. Best part, I realise, is that I've missed half of my first combat session. Not that training to bring down a major religious landmark and skipping training is a bad thing, but sympathy isn't something I'd associate with Cloner and the others here, especially as they've all been through the same ordeal as me. Wait... Scar! I'm up in a few seconds. The pain can get me back later, but I'm running to the tiny bathroom inside my room. I stare into the mirror. The mark is slap bang in the middle of the left of my neck. Brilliant. And it's so aggressive, so... evil. But I have to admit, it's probably something like what I'd have chosen if I'd had to have a tattoo. But my eye. It's disgusting. The cut down the middle of my eyeball is dark red, and the eye around it looks as though it's been dragged down my face by it - it's all distorted. Now, the bottle, I look at it. My head is swaying slightly. But I can read the label. For your messed up eye. Lovely. A bottle of eye drops for me. I decide to put some in. But before then, my neck rips in two with pain, and I decide to leave it a bit, go back to my bed. If only for a few seconds, before Cloner is at my door. "NIAMH! UP!!!"